Malcolm had started watching crime thrillers four years ago. Beginning with the movie ‘Blow’, starring Johnny Depp as the real life George Jung, Malcolm realized that he felt a particular affinity to drug pushers. They produced, transported and sold their goods in a meticulous fashion, and went to great lengths to protect it. It was all about business, nothing more. After all, money is the be all and end all for procuring desires and vanities. But then, for them, it began as a necessity. After satisfying their needs with initial successes. they could well have stopped. This was where greed came into the picture. The need to maintain the newly acquired lifestyle had got to their heads, already strung out thin with drugs, booze and cigarettes, and what happened was self-destruction. Bottom line, do not push so much, that it starts pissing people off, ever. Instead, just play video games, dance or work-out maybe.
Malcolm’s affinity ran deep. In his second year of college, a wannabe drug dealer who went by the name of Johnny, had sold him some laced marijuana. Malcolm, an amateur that time, had lapped up the small transparent sachet, containing a brownish looking substance, in glee. Within the next thirty minutes, he had crushed enough of it for himself, headed to the picturesque balcony and smoked it from the bong, whose insides were stuck with brown residue, not cleaned in months, and by now used by at least twenty five people regularly, mingled with guests from college who used the flat to pass some hours constructively.
The hit didn’t feel right, in fact it was very bad, because a blackness had enveloped in front of his eyes, and the ensuing weakness soaked up all his body’s water reserves like a fireball. Without strength to muster himself to the bed, he passed out in the balcony itself, his black tee shirt stained with dust and sweat. As he took one last almighty breath, his chest hurt slightly, and the last thing he saw was the sun, sinking down into the horizon. Everything went black.
His eyes opened four hours later. His breath contained dust, so did his nose, but he liked the smell. He knew the smell of dust. Lifting his hand to support his body on the railing, he saw that the balcony door was open, and on the second mattress from him lay Sins, busy watching a show on his laptop. He wondered why the person hadn’t had the civility or compassion to wake him up from the balcony. For all matters considered, he may well have been dead.
He swore revenge on Johnny. On further reflection, it wasn’t his fault. Malcolm would find his own, men or women who could guarantee purity, the way how it was supposed to be. He lumbered back to his bed, and slept for 17 hours.
Marijuana Maharaj 